


Molten

by MotherMaple



Series: The Lipstick Chronicles [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cheesy, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom!Jughead, Established Relationship, F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Praise Kink, Smut, Spanking, Tropey trope tropes, and because I can, because it exists, how does one choose?, loving dom, praise kink and spanking kink, romantic smut, snakeskin bondage gear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15734994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherMaple/pseuds/MotherMaple
Summary: "Red sits somewhere between pink and burgundy, and it means that tonight is all for him. (Except that it’s really for her, and he’s just along for the ride.)"





	Molten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jandjsalmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jandjsalmon/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, @jandjsalmon !!
> 
> I made this, just for you, my dearest Jandy. 
> 
> Everyone else, go back and read the tags again. This is fluffy filth, but it's still filth. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to @bugggghead for being my lovely beta <3
> 
> **not appropriate for minors**

The streetlights are already on when he turns onto the quiet, tree-lined street he’s lived on for four years. He hadn’t meant to be so late getting home, but deadlines are deadlines, and even whining about an all-important wedding anniversary didn’t get his director off his back.

The house is almost dark when he pulls into the driveway, parking his beautifully restored vintage Shelby Cobra under the lilac bush and patting the hood fondly as he walks past it towards the house.

He can see light dancing on the closed curtains of his small library, flickering too much to come from the lamps. Betty must have lit a fire, he thinks, smiling to himself as he unlocks the front door, kicking off his shoes in the entry and loosening his shirt collar as he walks down the hall.

The library door is open, and although the fine leather sofa that’s uncomfortable as hell but that fits the aesthetic of the room blocks his view, he can smell Betty’s favourite perfume; and even if he couldn’t, he’d know she was there. He’s been too in tune with her for too long - he’ll always know when she’s near.

When he goes inside, she looks up at him from her spot on the floor, curled up demurely on a soft blanket in front of the fire, a plate of fruit and a tiny, candle-lit fondue pot next to her, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket nearby. She’s wearing a silky scrap of a robe, shimmering black and tied tightly so she’s covered from throat to knee, and a deep red lipstick that makes her mouth look like it’s been painted with molten rubies.

The lipstick is a deliberate choice, a signal. Pink is her usual, and it means romance - vanilla and sweet. Black means he’ll be begging for mercy by the end of the night, and wearing the marks of the evening for at least a few days. Dark burgundy means the reverse: he’s in charge and Betty expects complete dominance from him.

Red sits somewhere between pink and burgundy, and it means that tonight is all for him. (Except that it’s really for her, and he’s just along for the ride.)

 

“Hi,” she says softly, climbing to her feet and meeting him halfway across the room. Her skin is warm from the fire when she reaches for him, wrapping her arms around him and grazing her nose against his cheek. “You’re home late.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, chasing her lips when she teasingly pulls away. “Hold still, woman.” He smacks her bottom playfully and plants an exaggerated kiss on her smiling lips, holding her face firmly in his hands. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, your secretary texted me when you left so I could get ready.” She leads him over to the sofa and pushes him down to the floor, perching on the couch behind him and settling her hands on his shoulders. “I know you were busy today.”

“You’re in cahoots with my staff?” The start of a betrayed protest is cut off by her deceptively delicate-looking hands digging firmly into the tight muscles of his back, knotted by his day’s work.

“Mhm,” she says absently, sliding her hands down his chest and unbuttoning his shirt. “She knew we had plans tonight, wanted to keep you out of trouble, so she let me know you were going to be running late.”

Jughead hums quietly, letting her push the wrinkled shirt down his arms so she can rub his back, his head falling forward when her thumb presses under his shoulder blade. “I should offer her a raise,” he mumbles after a while, drawing up his knees and resting his cheek on his stacked arms. “It would have been a shame to miss this.”

“Wouldn’t it just, though?” She smooths his undershirt down and slips off the sofa, the hem of her robe brushing his shoulder as she walks by. “Dom?” she asks, tongue in cheek, pulling the champagne out of the ice and collecting two glasses from the small bar cart in the corner.

“Don't mind if I do,” he chuckles, standing up to take the glasses from her, and then settling himself in an oversized armchair to watch her putter around the room, arranging things to her liking.

When everything she wants is in arm's reach, she stands quietly before him and waits, hands clasped innocently behind her back and dancing eyes trained on the floor.

“Don't be shy baby.” He pats his knee. “Come sit with me.”

“Don’t you want to unwrap your present first?” She drags her bottom lip slowly between her teeth, fingering the neck of her robe. “I think you’ll like it.”

“I know I will. Later.” He pats his knee again, more insistently, and raises an eyebrow impatiently until she curls up on his lap and rests her hands on his chest, then he whispers the words that really start the evening. “Good girl.”

She preens and leans in as if to kiss him, but he presses a finger to her mouth and pushes her away, glaring at her repressively. “I don’t recall you asking permission to do that,” he says darkly, and the smile falls from her face. She pouts, looking at him with big, liquid eyes that he can almost never resist. “So beautiful, so eager,” he murmurs, tracing her plush lips with his thumb. The glassy lipstick doesn’t smudge and he wonders, briefly, what it would take to change that.

But he’s not ready to kiss her again - he wants her frustrated, distracted, maybe even begging, before he gives in. He likes her desperate, and he knows she likes it too. She likes to leave her responsible, powerful persona at the door sometimes, letting him break her down to her most base self, demonstrating her complete devotion to him and leaving no room in her mind for anything but his touch. Cliched and dated as it is, she finds it liberating.

Sometimes.

The lipstick never lies.

Changing the subject, he tilts his chin at the tray of fruit that now rests on the occasional table next to them. “So, what did you make me for dessert, baby?” he asks.

“Just some strawberries and things, Belgian chocolate …” She sits up and reaches for the tray, pulling it closer. “What would you like?”

“Strawberries, please.” He sees her bite back a smile because he is always - whether he’s on his knees begging her to touch him, or he’s got her harnessed to the door frame, leather belt wrapped around his hand - unfailingly polite to her.

She plucks a particularly plump berry from the tray and dips it in the warm chocolate, offering it to him with her spare hand cupped under it to catch any falling sauce. He bites into it sensually, honestly feeling a bit ridiculous but knowing she’s enjoying the show by the dark gleam in her eyes. Sticky strawberry juice and chocolate cling to his lips and he gruffly orders her to clean it up, hardening instantly at the feeling of her soft tongue flicking against his mouth, her gentle hands holding his jaw still.

She lingers a second too long, her lips almost brushing against his, and he delivers a sharp warning smack to her backside. “That’s two, baby.”

“I don’t think you mind,” she whispers, wriggling a bit in his lap, pressing her hip into his erection.

“Besides the point, naughty girl. Behave yourself, or I’ll turn you over my knee.”

Her breath hitches and her pupils grow huge, black almost completely eclipsing her signature bright green. “I don’t think I want to be good.”

“Yes, you do.” He strokes his hand over the curve of her hip, the silky robe running through his fingers like water. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? You like to make me proud of you.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers, blinking at him with big, round eyes, practically panting for the chance to be good for him.

In the hands of someone less honourable it would be dangerous, this power he has over her. She’d do anything for him if he phrased it the right way. It never crosses his mind to use it for anything but her pleasure, but it’s always there, in the back of his mind, to be careful with it.

Her trust means everything to him.

“That’s better.” He pulls her closer, her breasts pillowing against his chest, her perfume flooding his brain, and he runs the tip of his nose up the underside of her jaw. “Open my belt, please.”

She does, quickly, her hands barely fitting in the space between their bodies.

“Take it off.”

The soft leather slides through the loops with a threatening whisper and he takes it from her, pressing her wrists together and holding them fast. He’s uncoiling the belt, about to wrap it around her hands, when she clenches her fists briefly and glances at him through her eyelashes.

“What?” he asks, stilling. “You can use your safeword, Betts.”

She shakes her head and smiles. “No, that’s not it. You don’t need the belt, though.”

“Don’t I?” He leans back in the chair, draping his arms along the back of it and cocking his eyebrow. “Why not?”

Inching off his lap, she stands up and smooths the wrinkles out of her robe. “If you want to tie me up, you should really open your present.”

He hadn’t planned on undressing her so soon - he was going to bind her and then excuse himself for a few minutes, tease her a bit, make her beg him to lay her bare - but she’s piqued his interest. “Alright, if that’s what you want. Give me five minutes, though.” He stands up and kisses the top of her head. “You’re going to suck my cock later, but I need a shower first.” He’s a gentleman, after all. “When I come back, I want you kneeling on the floor wearing nothing but firelight.”

Five minutes is probably more than he needs in the shower - he’s not dirty, just not fresh enough to feel good about forcing himself on her - but he wants to make her wait. He can picture her, her satin skin washed in golden light, anticipation quivering through every part of her. She’ll be coiled tighter than a spring, all damp silken heat, taut limbs and heavy breasts, just from the thought of what he might do to her.

He wonders how many times he can make her come in one night.

Given that he’s not planning on being dressed for much longer, he considers just going downstairs in his bath towel. But, if she went to the obvious trouble of picking out a special outfit, preparing the library and planning an evening in which to spoil him, the least he can do is make some kind of effort for her. He digs a pair of black satin pyjama pants out of a drawer - he’s only worn them once before but he knows Betty likes the slippery fabric on him as much as he likes it on her.

She’s facing the fire when he comes back, her gorgeous body bare, kneeling as instructed, and she peers at him over her shoulder with a demure smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a thin silver chain wrapped twice around her waist and she has a pair of exotic - looking cuffs on her wrists, pewter D-rings on each of them.

The sight goes straight to his dick and he lets out a silent moan, his stomach clenching when she turns slightly and her hair swings away from her neck.

There’s a thick choker around her throat, made of deep green snakeskin that matches the cuffs, and a silver ring dangling from the center of it.

Instantly, a dozen scenarios race through his mind; countless ways he could arrange the pieces; sculpt her body until she’s his own private work of art, bound and completely under his control. The possibilities make him dizzy and he doesn’t know where to start.

Somehow his feet have carried him to her and he falls to his knees at her side, gathering her in his arms and bending her back, kissing her, devouring her, making embarrassing little noises against her mouth.

How the hell did he get so lucky?

She’s clinging to him, breathless, taking advantage of his temporary lapse to fist her hands in his hair, run her fingers over his back, flick her tongue softly against his lips. Finally, the brush of her cuff against his shoulder brings him back to himself and he remembers all of his grand plans.

He’s supposed to be torturing her. She wanted to serve him, to be used for his enjoyment.

“You made me forget myself, Pet,” he says threateningly, disentangling himself from her welcoming arms and firmly pushing her back onto her knees.

Her lipstick is still perfect.

“I’m sorry.” She’s not - she’s thoroughly flushed and dishevelled, and anything but sorry. “Would you like to punish me? Sir?” Her tongue pokes between her teeth and she smiles devilishly at him. It’s her game, her fantasy, but she’s still proud of herself for making him crack.

He can’t grudge her that - he usually stays in control, no matter what she tries.

He’s definitely going to punish her.

“Don’t move.” There’s no room to mistake his tone of voice and she freezes obediently while he inspects the various accessories she wears. “Oh, the things I could do to you,” he breathes, opening the lobster hooks securing the chain and unravelling it from her waist. He slides it easily through the ring at her throat, attaching it at each end to her wrists.

There’s a flexible silver coil wrapped around it that can be used like the clip on a bolo tie, to give her more or less freedom of her hands; or he could make her wear it like a belt, and secure her wrists at her waist with no freedom at all.

It’s an incredible gift, but not nearly as incredible as the woman who wears it.

He helps her to her feet and drops back into his armchair, pulling her down to straddle his lap, her legs spread with her knees on either side of his thighs, wedged between the seat and the arms of the chair. With her wrists bound and the thin chains hanging between her breasts, glowing in the firelight, she looks like a mythical fae, born in fire and trapped in iron, waiting to be unleashed.

“Grapes, please,” he says wickedly, coiling the clip around the two sides of the chain and drawing it down until it rests inches from her wrists. Her arms are as free as the chain is long - which isn’t very - but she’ll have to move both of them together to reach anything.

She sees what he’s after at once, shifting to her knees and twisting her torso to reach the plate. Her breasts are pushed together by her arms, and her nipples are already tight, begging to be soothed by his tongue. Her hips sway as she moves, her thighs flexed for balance, and she lets out a small huff when she settles on his knees again, raising her hands to drop a grape into his waiting mouth.

“Chocolate.”

Her forehead scrunches in thought before she shrugs minutely and dips the tip of her finger in the still-warm chocolate, giving it a swirl and bringing it to his lips. A drop falls on his chest before he can catch it and she looks at him nervously.

He grips her wrists in his big hands, strong and rough from years of construction, nimble from endless hours hovering over a keyboard. “Go on.” She knows what to do, bending down to lick the chocolate off his skin while he sucks her finger into his mouth, enjoying the sight of her back arching against the strain of holding her arms up, her hips pushed back and her ass in the air to accommodate the length of her torso in the small space.

He suddenly feels like he’s at the wrong end of the remarkable view.

“Good girl.” He lets her hands go, stroking her hair and helping her sit up again. She looks impossibly turned on already, but he’s just warming up. “But you still have three strikes.”

Betty’s a good actress, but she can’t hide her delight before she puts on a fairly convincing look of trepidation. “What are you going to do to me, Juggie?” she whispers, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

“You know what I have to do.” He opens the clips at her wrists, and stands, lifting her easily and setting her on her feet. Pulling the chain still attached to her choker, he leads her over to the sofa and tells her to face the fire. He sits on the sofa behind her, pulling the collar around so the ring is at her spine, twisting the chains over and over into a double helix and securing her hands behind her back with the shortened length.

“Lie over my lap.”

She climbs awkwardly onto the sofa, and he helps her lie down, her legs crossed at the ankles and her knees bent against the arm of the couch. Jughead puts a pillow under her cheek and shifts himself until his thighs are under her hips, forcing her perfect ass up and baring her sex to him.

He was right - she’s already glistening with want. He swipes a finger through her folds, so quickly it barely registers, and she moans with disappointment, wiggling so her legs fall slightly open, silently begging for more. That earns her a sharp slap at the top of her thighs and she whines, arching up and pushing her hips back, searching for friction.

Another smack, leaving a faint handprint on her ass - a gasp, a moan, and a strangled, “please Jug, more.”

“What was that?” He grips her jaw in his hand and turns her head so she’s facing him. “What did you say?” A sharp whack, between her thighs, so she cries out and grinds her hips against his leg.

“Please, more, please. Harder, faster, something. Please, Juggie.” She’s got tears of frustration in her eyes. Probably she’s been thinking about this all day, working herself up to a state of near desperation, and it won’t take much to send her over the edge.

His right hand slips between her legs, cupping her, and he slides two fingers into her, his eyes widening at how wet she is. “Thank you,” she babbles, fucking his hand unconsciously. “Please, more.”

The next strike is harder, making her body jerk and clench tightly around his fingers, then another and another until she’s got one foot on the floor and the other braced against the arm of the sofa, pushing against his probing fingers and begging him to let her come.

She can’t quite seem to fall over the edge so he puts one more finger in motion, stroking lazily against her clit until she arches off the sofa, her forehead pressed into the cushion, and cries his name, clenching so hard around his hand that he wonders for a moment if he’ll ever write again.

Then she’s collapsing against him, limp and panting, her hips still moving as though asking for more.

She’ll get more.

“Need a minute, babe?” he asks quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear and undoing her wrists so she can stretch. “You did so well.”

She whimpers at his praise and shakes her head, tears still leaking out of her eyes, lipstick still perfectly, glossy red. “I’m fine. Just a little break, please. That was great.”

“You liked that, bad girl?” He reaches for the aloe she’d set out and squirts some into his hand, rubbing it gently into her abused skin. “Getting punished?”

“Mhm,” she sighs, settling herself more comfortably across his lap and resting her face on her arms. “But I promise I’ll be good now.”

 

 

 

She proves it a few minutes later when she produces a second gift: ankle cuffs that match the ones on her wrist, and a cross-shaped strap that hooks all four of them together. She’s a vision, kneeling bound on the floor at his feet, waiting patiently while he fists himself, telling her all the ways he’s going to take her, starting with her sinful-looking mouth.

Those cherry red lips wrap around him like something out of a dream, and he holds her face in his hands, thrusting gently into her throat while she eagerly sucks and swallows, moaning around him and so hopelessly turned on that he can see the whites of her eyes every time her eyelashes flutter.

She blinks, three times deliberately, and he stops, giving her a chance to breathe. She swallows, choking a bit, and looks up at him. “Harder,” is all she says before she opens her mouth again, waiting for him.

He’s so hard now that he’s honestly not sure how she can take him, but he complies (selflessly, of course), sliding into her throat again and again until the sound of her lips around him is obscene, filthy and wet, and her body is moving like he’s really fucking her. He’s muttering almost incoherently while he grips her hair, “Such a good girl, Betty, taking my cock like that ... Fuck, baby, you’re doing so good … you like that?”

She nods furiously, even with her mouth full of him; her makeup still perfect, not a trace of effort to be seen on her beautiful face.

It takes everything he has not to empty himself across her chest, to mark her, to give in to the desire to come, and come hard.

But fuck, he’s not done with her. And by the looks of things, she’s not done with him either.

He stops and pulls away, and she gasps, futilely trying to wipe her mouth on her shoulder before giving up and sinking down to sit on her heels, panting for breath, her lips still glistening with gloss and saliva.

“What do you need, baby?” he asks, squatting down and wiping her face gently with a linen napkin.

He expects her to ask for water, or time, or for him to let her arms go, but she just fixes him with a wanton stare and says, “more.”

It’s clear who has more stamina in the relationship.

He reaches around her and unhooks the leather harness, helping her move her hands to the front of her body until he hopes the feeling in her shoulders is normal. The ankle cuffs have chains of their own and he hooks them to her wrists, right to right and left to left.

“Face down, baby, ass up, and stretch your arms in front of you.” The chains aren’t long enough for that, and she’s forced to spread her legs wide to make it work, leaving plenty of room for him to settle behind her and bury his face between her thighs, planting his hands on her ass and kneading the still-red skin.

She groans, her legs shaking as she struggles to stay still until he finally gives her permission to move, ordering her curtly to fuck his face while he strokes his clever tongue all over her drenched core.

Impossibly, she spreads her legs wider and he knows she’s searching for the satisfying itch of his stubble against her (he doesn’t get it, but when he’s nose deep between her legs, he’s not going to complain.) She grinds against him, curling her hips with abandon, no longer concerned as she once was that she might suffocate him.

(Really though, what a way to go.)

“Please finger me, Daddy.” It’s a sign of how far gone she is when she calls him that - she always blushes when he reminds her after the fact, but he loves it because it means she’s almost completely out of her head.

She cries out when he thrusts three fingers into her, pressing them where he knows she wants them and she stills, scrunching up and drawing her elbows almost to her knees, letting him play her the way he knows she likes.

Moving her hands means punishment, and he rains light, stinging blows over her ass while he licks her, his other hand still curling into her dripping core.

“Please, Daddy,” she whimpers. “Please, I’m going to come. Please don’t stop.”

God, he loves it when she begs. He wouldn’t dare stop, unable to deny her anything even when she’s supposed to be at his mercy, and he moans encouragement, feasting on her like she’s his last meal. “Come for me, baby,” he mumbles, hoping the vibrations of his voice hit her in the right spot.

They do, and suddenly his arm and chest are soaked, and his wife is wailing into the carpet and shaking like she’s been electrocuted, and wiggling her hips desperately into his face.

“Oh, my God,” he breathes when she’s done, unhooking her ankles so she can collapse, and he falls down on top of her, covering her like a blanket while she shudders and spasms under him. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, holding her, “breathe. You did so, so good.”

“Oh God,” she whimpers, over and over again, her hand searching for his and clutching it to her heart. “Holy shit.”

“I know, I know.” He’s dizzy, almost blind with lust, painfully hard and aching to sink into her, but he waits, agonizing minutes, while she comes back to herself.

“Oh, baby,” she finally sighs. “If this is punishment, I’m going to keep being bad.”

“You’re not done yet,” he reminds her. “Unless you want to use your safeword?”

“Oh, Hell no.” She rouses herself and rolls over underneath him, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I’m all yours.”

 

 

 

He feels like a virgin, wanting so badly to make the most of it that he almost doesn’t know what to do next. “Think you can ride me?” She’s a runner, in better shape than anyone he knows, but he’s already taken a lot from her tonight.

“Yes, Sir,” she purrs, the orgasmic delirium fading from her eyes, and her scarlet-lipped alter-ego slipping back into place. “Where do you want me?”

He stands up and pulls her to her feet, falling almost automatically back into his chair and offering her a glass of champagne. It’s surely gone flat but she doesn’t seem to mind, downing it in one go. He pops the cork out of the bottle and pours another glass, taking it from her and dribbling some down her chest. He doesn’t lick it up, just watches it join the beads of sweat glistening on her skin, then leans forward to take her nipple in his mouth and suck it gently.

She moans and arches into him, spreading her legs and wiggling until his cock is nestled between her legs, buried in her slick heat, aching to feel her stretched around it.

“Please fuck me, Juggie,” she whispers, her eyes closed and her head tilted back. “I need you.”

Need doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels. He’s ready to crawl out of his skin to get to her, his scalp prickling, his fingertips numb, and his dick so hard he thinks he could drive a nail into the wall if he had to. He just hopes he can keep himself together long enough to enjoy her before he comes like an excited teenager.

He lifts her and shifts, the tip of his cock nudging her entrance and she moans, loudly, sinking down onto him with one easy stroke.

Her last orgasm is still sending shocks through her and she grips him with iron strength, her body sucking him in.

It’s better than amazing. It always is.

His eyes roll back in his head and he groans, thrusting deep inside her, making her bounce on his lap. Then she takes over, sliding her hips back and forth along his thighs and grinding her clit against his lower stomach so she tightens impossibly more, and leans back, resting her hands on his knees behind her. The view is cover-worthy, her sticky breasts thrust in his face, her taut body curving and stretching, every intimate part of her exposed while she rides him, slowly, slowly, so the pleasure builds in his stomach, in his toes, behind his eyes.

It seems to take forever, his climax working his way through him, and he finds himself mumbling her name. “Fuck, Betty, baby don’t stop. You feel so fucking good …”

He’s gasping for breath when the little streaks of “Yes, yes, yes,” from all over his body converge between her legs and he arches into her with a helpless shout, suddenly standing up and flipping her over in some impossible movement he’d never be able to replicate. She’s bent over the back of the chair, crying out, “yes, Jug, oh, God yes!” and he’s pounding into her, feeling like his hair is three sizes too small and his legs are on fire. He’s never felt anything like it in his life when he finally empties himself into her so forcefully that he thinks he might pass out.

Each breath is ending in a strange, high-pitched, shuddering noise when they collapse in a heap onto the floor, and he’s clutching her to him like they’re welded together. It feels like hours before he stops shaking and jerking into her, little aftershocks hitting him as hard as some orgasms.

Betty’s shaking too, her teeth chattering with adrenaline, and she finally rolls over and clamps her mouth to his, drinking him in, all tongue and teeth and whimpering sighs. She’s saying something, he thinks it’s “I love you,” mumbled over and over into his mouth, and he’s holding her as close as he can, his arms and legs wrapped around her like a clinging vine, like he never wants to let her go.

He never wants to let her go.

He’s not sure how well they stuck to the guidelines set out by the red lipstick. He’s not sure it matters. Betty’s still whispering something, half to herself, her nose pressed against his, breathing him in. Her hands stroke his hair more possessively than not, trying to pull him closer. Her body is almost limp in his arms, completely sated.

Later, when their heart rates slow and the neglected fire isn’t enough to warm their sweat-cooled skin anymore, he’ll run a bath and they’ll sink into it together, kissing the tender spots that remain, and whispering about what worked and what didn’t. They’ll remember their wedding night, six years ago to the day, when they’d been so eager to have each other that he’d hitched up her dress and taken her in the car on the way to the airport.

They’ll laugh about how every time they play this game they forget how good it was the last time, how every time feels like the first, how it just keeps getting better. He’ll wash away the lingering traces of himself between her legs, and rub aloe and arnica into her skin.

There will be advil and a chocolate kiss on her bedside table when she wakes up alone because he’s in the kitchen, cooking her favourite breakfast, and they’ll spend the next day curled up together in soft clothes with old movies and delivered junk food.

A day or two will pass chastely, and then the pale pink lipstick will reappear, and that will be perfect, too.

**Author's Note:**

> 'kneeling on the floor wearing nothing but firelight" is a stolen paraphrase from a romance novel I once read called The Wind Dancer by Iris Johansen. Awful story, but I like the line, which originally read "sitting on that stool wearing nothing but firelight"
> 
> Also, there are some extended notes over on my tumblr, explaining some of the choices I made with this stories. One reader in particular had several questions that I wanted to address. 
> 
> https://mothermaple.tumblr.com/post/177212198093/this-is-for-the-nonnie-named-kat-who-reviewed


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